


watch how we play

by Kellyscams, luninosity



Series: we walk the sun [3]
Category: Actor RPF, Captain America (Movies) RPF, Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Breakfast, Cat/Human Hybrids, Comfort, Dancing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hope, Love, M/M, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, kitten!seb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-03
Updated: 2016-04-03
Packaged: 2018-05-30 21:55:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6442387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kellyscams/pseuds/Kellyscams, https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Chris gets out of bed, Sebastian's in the kitchen. Dancing. With a spatula.</p>
            </blockquote>





	watch how we play

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place some unspecified amount of healing time after story one and before story two.
> 
> Title, of course, courtesy of Tiffany, because Sebastian Stan.
> 
> Warnings-ish for past trauma (in the tags) and present healing.

Sebastian’s in the kitchen when the moment happens.

He’s in the kitchen because he can’t sleep--nightmares, yes, but also the extremely mundane annoyance of trying to roll over and landing on his own brand-new tail--and he’d lain awake for several hours and finally gotten up and gone to their apartment’s home for ingredients and pots and pans and eggs and cheese. Nearly sunrise anyway. Nearly breakfast, right?

He bumps into a wall once. Into a countertop once. He puts a hand out: the familiar becomes unfamiliar and then familiar again, blurring categories.

Like himself: a hybrid.

He stops, and stands very still, and closes both eyes for a second. Two seconds. Hand on the countertop. Breathing.

The granite’s cool and smooth beneath his fingers. The floor’s warm and smooth: fantastically expensive heated tile. They’d planned to save up for that, him and Chris; Chris wants him to be comfortable always, even on his knees. Chris went ahead with the upgrade in the first few days, before Sebastian’d even been allowed out of the hospital, because Chris has been doing a lot of frantic reading and kittens need to be kept warm and--

He breathes out. Lets it go.

He’s different now. Chris paid for the upgrade because he’s different now. Chris did that because Chris loves him, because they’d talked about it anyway, because Chris wants him to feel safe and cherished and never ever cold.

The granite under his fingertips says it likes the new floor.

He pats it in return, and starts looking for eggs.

He’s more nocturnal now. He used to be a sort of halfway morning person, the kind of person who loved getting up and getting work done but also liked staying up late, especially when creative inspiration struck; as a result he’d tended to take naps in the afternoon, or just consume his body weight in caffeine. The naps’re mostly the same, he considers, and finds a laugh on his lips, astonished and barely audible.

He watches the flicker of fire under his chosen pan. Scrambled eggs, he thinks, and cheese and toast, probably with cream cheese. His taste-buds like creamy cheeses and milk. He’s ambivalent about his once-adored avocado.

He’s got the hang of the claws, more or less--retractable, they pop out when he’s scared or angry, or if he consciously wills them to, but he keeps them trimmed and blunt--and swiveling cat-ears are fun in a grimly humorous way, but the tail’s kind of an issue. Takes up extra odd space in the kitchen. Fluffs up when he turns and glimpses a dark shape in the living room. Prickling terror.

The dark shape’s of course the corner of a chair. He shivers, refuses to think about bad dreams and memories and cages and hands on his body. The sun’ll be coming up soon. Light on the horizon.

He gets out bread.

Chris is sleeping. Chris is exhausted. Chris has taken on this burden, this weight, without ever complaining: Chris has done everything possible to make this transition easier. Chris has touched his ears, his tail, with reverence: as if that’s just another part of who Sebastian is. Chris has made him laugh.

Chris has brought him home. In so many ways.

Breakfast in bed, he thinks, and pictures a tray and orange juice and a heart clumsily sketched on a napkin. He’s no artist, but Chris will smile.

The kitchen’s very quiet. Just him and the stove and the countertops. And the dark shapes that he shouldn’t be scared of, because they’re fucking _chairs_ , but he can’t help that. Trauma, kitten-instincts, nightmares. Rationally he knows why those reactions exist. Doesn’t mean he enjoys them.

The kitchen’s _too_ quiet; tiny hairs stand on end along his arms, at the nape of his neck. Too much like isolation, and the scent of breakfast’s trying its best but that’s not enough, that’s not--

He touches the wall control for their sound system. He could engage the voice command, but he doesn’t feel like speaking. He doesn’t know why not.

He sets it low, hopefully enough to not wake the man he loves; he sets it to eighties pop music. Has to grin, remembering: Billy Idol, Bon Jovi, himself making dinner for Chris the very first night Chris had come back to his apartment, a third date. He’d been so nervous; he’d been singing and dancing in his starting-out screenwriter’s miniscule kitchen, anxious energy given a rock-medley outlet in an attempt to calm himself down, and Chris had shown up early with terrible wine and excellent beer and complete willingness to jump in and sing along…

He stirs fluffy eggs. He catches himself tapping a toe, barefoot, in pajama pants. The floor _is_ warm.

His tail flicks from side to side.

He doesn’t lose balance because that’s what the damn tail’s _for_. But he gasps, feels his heart slam into his ribs, stumbles over nothing at all. The claws come out involuntarily. They dig gouges into the spatula.

He puts the spatula down, puts both hands over his mouth, smothers a single sob.

His eighties playlist, becoming a Tiffany single, sings brightly: _trying to get away, into the night, and then you put your arms around me and we tumble to the ground and then you say…_

I think we’re alone now, he finishes silently. Yes. Himself, Chris, and the breakfast foods. Just them here in this apartment. Gen mod trafficking ring broken up and ended, at least the New York base of operations. He did get away; he made it here. He made it.

They made it. They’re doing so every single day: himself and Chris.

 _The beating of our hearts is the only sound!_ Tiffany tells him, glittering bubbles of musical hope.

And Chris is sleeping in their bed.

And sunrise is coming. Rose-gold streaks like treasure-chests opening in the sky. Glints of light off New York skyscrapers and museums and pavement, shining promises and beckoning big-city dreams.

He starts the song over.

His body aches in odd places, even now: phantoms of unwanted genetic modification, therapy, coping. He’ll never be the same. They made him into a terribly literal sex kitten, tail and ears and whiskers--the latter now removed, and even the scars’re gone, thanks to modern technology--and mating heat that’s going to happen sometime soon and a body that’ll open up and grow slick for penetration. They even made his nipples more tender, and his fucking _cock_ smaller--not a huge reduction, but a noticeable amount, in keeping with the kitten theme. Chris in theoretical terms knows about that one; Sebastian hasn’t let him see.

He’s not ready for that. He’s not ready to think about that.

He does like Chris’s hands on him. He does like being touched. In the weeks since he’s come home, and even before then in the hospital, he’s wanted that. Chris is Chris, not a cruel stranger; Chris is security and love and big expressive hands. They wear pajama pants to bed but they share a bed; Chris is extraordinarily careful to never startle him or reach for him without permission, and Sebastian can look at those worried beloved eyes and can recognize the man he adores and can take comfort in being held.

He likes sleeping beside Chris. Like their brand-new upgraded floor: warm. A future.

“--holding on to one another’s hands,” he says, not quite singing but in time with the next line of the song.

This time when he catches himself dancing a little--a flourish when cracking an egg, a hip-wiggle while closing the refrigerator--he doesn’t stop.

He tests whether the tail can get into the act. Turns out it can. Kind of neat, that. And the spatula’s perfectly usable even with a claw-mark or two. It’s a happy accomplice when he waves it in time with the melody.

He flips on the coffee-maker, and makes a silly happy finger-point gesture at it, and it burbles.

That means it’s dancing with him, Sebastian decides, and does a tiny hop-and-slide of glee, of victory, of triumphant good-morning cheerfulness, on his way back to the stove.

 

Chris is awake. He’s not sure why he’s awake, but he is. Somewhere between the hazy edge of a dream that wants to pull him back to sleep and stirring to full consciousness in the predawn light that trickles in through the windows. The glass is already adjusting as the sky wakes and the sun begins to rise.

There’s music somewhere close, but Chris doesn’t care to figure out where. Right now, he just wants to slip back to sleep. He rolls over. Lets his hand sneak a bit closer to the other side of the bed. He’s awake enough to know that he should stop when he feels the heat coming from Seb’s body, just shy of physical touch. He doesn’t want to startle his kitten -- he’s done that enough times already.

His arm is fully stretched when he realizes there’s only sheets and blankets next to him. Chris cracks an eye open. And shoots up.

“Seb?” His voice is rough and sleep-heavy. “Sebastian?”

He scans the room as the panic creeps into his bones. Searches for any signs that Sebastian's been stolen right out of the bed they share. Chris’s heart beats a few frantic beats before he pulls in a steadying breath. Breathes out some of the fears. No need to panic. Not yet. Seb’s probably just gotten out of bed. Nightmares. New nocturnal instincts. Chris hopes it’s the latter.

Tossing the blankets off, Chris scrubs hands over his face and then gets out of bed. That music he hadn’t quite paid attention to earlier is clearer now. Coming from right inside his home. The kitchen to be precise.

“Seb?” he calls out softly as he approaches.

His voice is barely audible, especially as the music gets louder in the kitchen. Chris isn’t quite sure what what to expect, but, when he gets to the door and peers inside, it certainly isn’t what he finds.

And what he finds is the stove on. Small flames dancing under a giddy pan. And the coffee maker up and running. Bubbles hopping and bursting with unexpected joy as they dance happily out of step with the stove’s fire. And Sebastian. Hips wiggling, arms swaying, tail swishing back and forth. Dancing. Sebastian is dancing.

Cooking, too, from the looks of it. Eggs fluffed and whisked and poured into the pan. Milk and cream and cheese out on the counter -- the kitchen keeps lots of dairy products now. Milk and cheese and yogurt and ice cream. Seb had been spectacularly excited when Chris first found blueberry flavored ice cream. The freezer is stocked with it. Chris makes sure.

More important, at the moment, than blueberry ice cream and dairy products and bubbly coffee -- Sebastian is dancing. Chris could fall to his knees right there in the doorway of their kitchen. Sebastian is dancing. Like he used to. Off-beat, slightly awkward twists and turns to Tiffany’s voice singing to the kitchen, _The beating of our hearts is the only sound._

One heartbeat is all he needs to feel the joy that’s just too much to contain in a single smile. He sucks in a shaky breath that might be the start of a sob, but also holds the makings of a laugh. Chris can’t remember the last time he’s seen Seb dance. He used to all the time. Making breakfast, walking down the street, waiting for inspiration to hit; the pull of his favorite eighties hits sinking into long limbs and willing them to move.

Chris has been worried he’s done something wrong. Late night fears and noisy static in his brain as he poured hours and hours into research on what to do for Seb. Anything to make this easier. Kittens like to be warm. Kittens like to play. Kittens need to rest a lot. Kittens are easily rattled. But what if he missed something? What if he’s put too much pressure on him to be happy too fast? Made demands he didn’t mean to make? Does Sebastian not feel safe enough to dance? Has Chris ruined that for him? The same way shadowed figures crept into their lives and took so much from him already?

It’s still early, every doctor reminds them of that; Seb hasn’t even had a heat yet -- Chris has read up every piece of information he can, but he and Sebastian haven’t talked about that much. Seb isn’t ready to, Chris knows. And as much as Chris wishes he could just snap his fingers and, just like that, make Seb whole again in a fairy-taled, happily ever after, he can’t. Chris, for all his wishing, has no magic other than hoping that his love -- everlasting and irrevocable -- might be enough.

But Sebastian has smiled again. He has laughed. He’s beginning to feel comfortable curling into Chris’s lap for an afternoon nap or just because he wants to. Seb lets Chris pet him. Allows him the privilege and the dizzying joy of stroking big, clumsy hands over soft, delicate fur. Even, sometimes, over the sensitive base of his spine. Hips lifting into the touch.

And right now, Seb holds a spatula up, almost like a microphone, but not exactly singing into it. His head bops up and down as he shimmies back over to the wall just as the song ends and replays it. Starts tapping his toes and, in an amazing feat of grace, spins on one foot. He topples slightly, a bit off balance, and laughs to himself. The counter offers support when Seb’s hand lands on top of it. Chris, unable to keep it in, has to let the laugh bubble through him.

The noise must startle Seb. His tail does puff and his claws shoot out, but, unlike a few uglier times in the first few weeks of coming home when Chris’s hands and fingers sought out to touch without thinking, he registers quickly that there’s no danger. That it’s just his silly boyfriend intruding on a once happily private moment.

There’s already a slight flush to Seb’s skin, but it gets darker when he spots Chris standing there watching him. Chris opens his mouth to apologize, but the words get stuck when Sebastian, a little embarrassed, but not shy, simply smiles and begins to move his hips again.

 

He’s knocked off-balance for a second--but only a second--by the sound. He knows it’s Chris’s laugh because he knows Chris’s laugh; he’s smiling even as he turns, as his tail puffs up and deflates belatedly. He pulls back instinctive claws with an internal sigh.

At least he didn’t hiss. They’re just about at the point where _that_ reaction’s more entertaining than traumatic. Almost. Nearly there.

Chris, also barefoot and wearing superhero-themed pajama pants and a Patriots t-shirt and a complicated expression, starts to talk, gets as far as parting lips, stops. His hair’s standing up on one side from sleep and his mouth seems to be trying to laugh and cry and apologize at once. Sebastian loves him in this moment almost beyond bearing: this man with broad shoulders and anxiety and gentle strength and a determination to keep trying no matter what. Sebastian loves him.

He does a little hip-wiggle, well aware of how ridiculous he must look, and waves the spatula. “Come dance with me?”

Chris’s mouth opens again. No sound emerges. The sun’s sneaking up; the windows compensate automatically, being set to let every last drop of sunshine in to bathe kitten-ears.

“What,” Sebastian says, “you just wanted to watch, sir?”

“Seb…” Chris’s voice catches, cracks, grabs onto the teasing for equilibrium: “You know I…always like watching you…perform for me…Tiffany, huh?”

“Nineteen eighty-seven was a very good year for music.” Sebastian sets the spatula down--pausing to slide eggs to a safer long-term spot--and holds out both hands. “Come here?”

Chris nods, wide-eyed, apparently caught between laughter and some other more profound emotion. Sebastian understands. His heart feels exactly the same way.

Chris crosses the room. Takes his hands, no hesitation, no concern about recently-visible claws. Only conviction in that grip. Sebastian squeezes back. Himself and Chris, in pajamas, surrounded by eggs and cheese and toast and coffee, in their kitchen. Holding hands.

 

Emotions gather in Chris’s chest and skitter about to every inch of him like a startled flock of birds taking off in every direction. It’s almost too much, this feeling of jubilation, and yet Chris never wants it to end. He’ll gladly allow every poppy song from nineteen eighty-seven to play over and over if it puts that smile on Seb’s face. If it encourages those hips to wiggle and these hands in Chris’s to squeeze back despite a fleeting flicker of worry over, most likely, briefly seen claws.

Their feet make silly noises as they move across the warm floors -- fingers laced and hands together. Sebastian is still smiling. Sebastian. Lovely, wonderful, brave Sebastian. Who’s asked Chris to dance as Tiffany continues to sing for them.

There’s a little bit of stiffness, of uncertainty as they find their rhythm until Chris, feeling incredibly daring, twirls Sebastian out and then back in.

“Oh!” Seb exclaims as Chris drops a hand onto his hip to keep him from wobbling off balance anymore. He blinks once. And a laugh bursts from his lungs.

Another laugh, this time from Chris. The pair of giggles meet somewhere in the middle and only add to the fun as they fall into their dance. A moment amid eggs and toast and helpful countertops that’s all theirs.

This is…this is good, Chris thinks, holding Seb’s hands as they flail through their kitchen in some semblance of tap-1940s-swing-modern-day-hopping-around dancing. Kittens are playful and Seb’s being playful and Seb is laughing and had reached out to invite him in, so this is good, better than good; more than he could’ve hoped for.

No doubt they look completely ridiculous, but Chris doesn’t care. Neither does Sebastian if the way he hops around, head rocking back and forth, tail swishing happily behind him, is any indication. The early morning sun catches Seb’s eyes every now and then, making them glow and shine, the same way Chris’s heart feels.

They’re both winded, cheeks stained pink and breaths coming out in exhilarated bursts, by the time the song ends. For just a heartbeat or two, they only stand there as they catch their breaths. Seb’s lip is tucked under his teeth, smile still inching its way across his face, when he closes the small space between them. He reaches up to Chris’s face. Brushes his fingers across his cheek to wipe Chris’s tears away.

“What’s wrong, Chris?” he asks softly.

Chris only shrugs and presses a soft kiss to Sebastian’s forehead because he can’t explain it. Can’t explain how this feels like a triumph. A win -- a _victory._ Seb must already know, as Chris does, their hearts beating together with the sheer intensity of this moment. Seb nods. Understands, and slowly winds his arms around Chris’s waist. His head nuzzles against Chris’s chest and Chris knows it’s permission to pet a hand over his head. And he does. Again and again as he holds his kitten close.

“I love you,” Chris murmurs. “So much, Seb. I love you.”

Seb’s ear twitches. Chris only knows because he can feel the soft fur touch across his cheek. Seb hugs him tighter. Whispers the sentiment back. And as Tiffany’s voice is replaced with Belinda Carlisle’s, who sings about making heaven a place on earth, another sound mixes in with the song. A sound of contentment -- of happiness and comfort. One of Chris’s new favorite sounds.

Purring.

Sebastian is purring.


End file.
